


I Heard There Was A Special Place

by Mirimage



Series: Dream SMP oneshots [6]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: :(, Afterlife, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mexican Dream cameo ayy, TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, no beta we die like tommy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:41:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29820255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirimage/pseuds/Mirimage
Summary: Wilbur's death was poetic and fitting, his father’s sword piercing his chest as he stood before his great unfinished symphony.Schlatt’s death was violent and sudden, succumbing to his own vices and surrounded by every enemy he’d ever made.Tommy dies alone in the depths of Pandora's Vault, at the hands of his greatest antagonist. His death is unfair, and undeserved, and most of all, far too soon.
Relationships: Jschlatt & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Dream SMP oneshots [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963615
Comments: 7
Kudos: 224





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow Tommy's death hurt huh. I'm sure he'll be resurrected, but in the mean time have this. 
> 
> (Twitter is @m1r1mage if you wanna come say hi, I promise I don't bite)

It was dark.

That was the first thing Tommy noticed. No harsh fiery glow, no purple drip-drip-dripping from the ceiling. Just an endless expanse of black stretching before him.

He blinked a couple of times, hard, to make sure his eyes were working fine. He flexed his fingers, curled into fists. He swallowed.

“Hello-o-o-o?” His voice echoed quietly, swallowed by the darkness far sooner than anything natural.

He took a hesitant step forward.

And the world spun into brightness.

Tommy flinched back, harsh enough to tip himself off his feet. The white light was blinding, and he raised a shaky hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

Two figures were silhouetted in his rapidly blurring vision. Before he passed out, Tommy heard a voice he couldn’t quite place.

“Oh, _shit._ ”

* * *

Tommy woke to an argument being hissed over his head. He blinked his eyes open, taking in the white void that still glowed around him.

“-react well to you being here, just go and see if you can find him!” A disappearing flash of green had him flinching in near instinctual panic, but by the time he had focused it was gone.

“Hey kid, what happened?”

Tommy looked up, and his heart stopped.

Peering down at him was someone he had hoped to never see again.

_“Schlatt?”_

Tommy scrambled backwards until he hit a wall, staring in mute horror at the figure before him. He was wearing a worn blue sweater, no suit in sight, but it was definitely Schlatt.

The president who had taken down the walls, who had exiled him and Wilbur to the depths of Pogtopia.

_(His childhood idol, who he had looked up to and joked with, and whose betrayal stung almost as deep as Eret’s.)_

Schlatt raised his hands in a pacifying motion, a clearly unpracticed look of concern on his face. He shifted as if he was about to speak, but Tommy was no longer paying attention.

His eyes had finally adjusted to the white glare, and the landscape had taken shape.

They were in—

L’Manburg.

The city was a hodgepodge mix of familiarity; ramshackle buildings backed up against towering sections of blackstone wall, buildings run down and decorated for festivities, buildings on stilts above great pools of water. There were even a few precarious stone-and-wood bridges and paths, strung with lanterns and railings absent. The different eras of L’Manburg all crashed and merged into one agglomerate mess, a warped but strangely comforting reflection of his life—his impact—on the SMP.

Except this clearly wasn’t anywhere on SMP lands.

L’Manburg was nothing but an empty crater in the ground, the walls a distant memory belonging to an optimistic young boy and his brother who just wanted a place to call home. 

“Where are we?”

Tommy turned back to Schlatt. The horned man was watching him with sad eyes, an expression Tommy couldn’t remember ever seeing on his face.

“Kid, you’re dead.”

The truth lanced through him, more sickening than any physical blow.

He remembered the prison, that too-long week spent trapped with almost every fear he’d ever gathered. Remembered pacing up and down, hands gripped in his hair, desperately trying to cling to his sanity as he felt the piercing eyes of his reluctant roommate follow him everywhere he went.

He remembered Dream’s weight pressing him into the glossy black flooring. The sound, the _feeling_ of something cracking, blood flooding his mouth with an overwhelming metallic tang as Dream struck again, and again, and again. A hot rush of panic, before everything faded away.

_“If you’re so sure Schlatt’s gone, why don’t you go see him?”_

Tommy shuddered as aftershocks of agony ghosted through his system. Blackstone pressed cold and solid against his spine, familiar from the days after the first war when he had found himself in a similar position, shaking with fear and pain and memory.

But this time, there would be no Tubbo to take his hand and guide him back to bed, no Niki to feed him baking and keep him company. No Wilbur to wrap him in a hug and tell him that everything would be okay.

“Tommy?”

His eyes went wide in disbelief as he stared down, almost unwilling to look up.

_(And shit, if he thought his feelings towards Schlatt were complicated, Wilbur was a tangled web he couldn’t possibly hope to make sense of.)_

No matter what, the voice was as familiar as his own, and so Tommy took a deep breath before meeting the eyes of his brother.

He was wearing the same yellow sweater worn by Ghostbur, but somehow Tommy knew. This was the real Wilbur. The one who smiled and played him songs, the one who was lost to madness in Pogtopia.

But now, his eyes were clear and filled with heartbreak. And whatever else Wilbur was _(general-president-destroyer-deaddeaddead)_ he was first and foremost Tommy’s brother.

Tommy was on his feet before he had registered the movement, and he flung himself at Wilbur in the way he never did with anyone else.

_“You’ll always be here to catch me, right Wilby?”_

And Wilbur, Wilbur caught him with the same gentle huff of breath and steady arms as he always had.

_“Of course, Toms.”_

Tommy was crying as he buried his face in Wilbur’s shoulder. He didn’t see Schlatt give them a soft look before disappearing back into the fractured streets, but he did feel as Wilbur tucked him closer, rested his chin on his head, and sighed.

“Oh, _Tommy,_ what did he do to you?”


	2. Chapter 2

Ghostbur hadn’t really been hanging around the SMP recently.

L’Manburg was gone, and with it his little home in the sewers, his crane, his library, his lanterns. Phil had offered his own house, but Ghostbur had only stayed for a few days. He couldn’t really place why, but being around his father felt… uncomfortable. Like he had done something bad, he just couldn’t remember what.

Ghostbur had instead made himself a tiny shack in the woods, out of the reach of the SMP and the Badlands and whatever new community that would build itself out of the ashes of L’Manburg. 

It was just him there, him and Friend.

 _(Friend looked a little different these days, but any doubts soon smoothed over into placid_ _acceptance as he forgot what he was even sad about in the first place_ _.)_

Ghostbur was a little lonely, but it was better than the constant reminders of what Alivebur had done.

* * *

Ghostbur found it hard to make music these days.

He had been messing around with noteblocks, when L’Manburg was still around. He found them easier to interact with, when his transparent hands slid through most solid objects.

He always preferred guitar though, and so the day dawned with him sitting in his little house in the forest, guitar clutched in semi-permeable hands.

He was plucking at the strings, teasing out a gentle melody when he felt an awful _yank_ , deep within his chest. The instrument slipped out of his already tenuous grasp as he lost focus.

He had felt this once before, back when he’d been with Phil and he’d mentioned Tommy was off doing something with Tubbo and Dream.

Ghostbur didn’t know what was going on, but he was scared. It hurt, like he was standing under a downpour of rain, like nothing else ever had since he had died. 

Friend nudged his shoulder, snuffling at his hair. Ghostbur buried a hand in vivid blue wool. He took a deep, steadying breath.He knew what to do.

Ghostbur closed his eyes.

And Wilbur’s eyes blinked open.

* * *

The white of the void always took him off guard as he shimmered into the nation that was never meant to be.

The feeling that had drawn him here with such intensity had quieted, now a gentle tugging like someone on the other end of a long string.

Following the pull, his strides lengthened as he remembered Ghostbur’s thoughts.

The last time he had felt this, Tommy had confronted Dream, he had _won_. The lure had dragged him into the SMP, _(the real him, not the half-aware shell that called itself Ghostbur,)_ and he had told his brother what he should have long ago.

_"I'm proud of you, Tommy."_

Something told him this time was different.

Rounding a corner, he skidded to a stop as bright festival decorations obscured his vision. Brushing them away in irritation, he took in one of the afterlife’s few other residents.

Schlatt turned to him with relief painted stark across his face. At his feet, backed up against one of the broken sections of the old L’Manburg wall, was someone he’d never wanted to see here.

The tugging made terrible, heartbreaking sense.

_“Tommy?”_

The boy froze, fingers twitching from where they were curled over his ears. Slowly, disbelievingly, Tommy looked up, and Wilbur had to stifle a gasp.

Splintering scars cut across his face, twisted with the residual fear and pain of death. They glowed with a faint silvery light, the same way the scar on Wilbur’s chest did, and he had no doubt that whatever— _whoever—_ killed his little brother did so with none of the faux gentleness Phil afforded to him.

Their eyes met.

Tommy threw himself forwards the way he always had when he was just a little kid, and when they collided Wilbur was ready.

“Oh, Tommy, what did he do to you?”

Tommy was burrowing closer, his arms an ever tightening vice, and Wilburhooked his chin over his head and held him. Tears rapidly dampened his shoulder, but he was too busy blinking back his own to care.

He didn’t know how long they stood there, tangled together, but Tommy eventually rubbed his eyes and drew back a bit.

With a quick movement he punched Wilbur’s arm, muttering a quiet “You fucking bitch, I hate you so much,” that he knew was just for show.

Wilbur guided his still sniffling brother over to the wall, sliding down to sit on the ground with the familiar chill to their backs. His arm remained clutched around Tommy’s shoulder, tucking him to his side.

_(He didn’t know if he could let go even if he wanted to.)_

Knowing that Tommy would never start on his own, Wilbur sighed.

“Do you wanna tell me what happened?” he prompted gently, giving his shoulders a reassuring squeeze. Tommy gulped, but resolve shone in his eyes.

“Dream-“ he started, choking as soon as he said the name. “We were in the prison, and-”

With a shaky voice and stuttering words, Tommy drew out the nauseating tale that lead to his death. Each halting sentence flooded Wilbur with revulsion and horror and _rage_.

“I told him to stop, I-I _begged_ him, and he laughed. Wilbur, he _laughed_.”

He’d always known who Dream was; he kind of person who would threaten oppression and exile over a prank, would change alliance at the drop of a hat, would stare down a terrified child forced into war and shoot to kill, but this?

This was beyond the line of ‘too far.’

Wilbur’s anger was slow burning; nothing like Tommy’s hot flash and Techno’s ever simmering bloodlust and even Phil’s quick-snap retort, but this sent icy cold fury crackling down his spine like nothing before.

And the worst part of all? Nothing he could do to Dream would ever be enough, _nothing_ would ever compare to the trauma he had left Tommy, left everyone on the server. Wilbur shook with the all encompassing urge to do something, _anything,_ and only the figure curled too-small next to him stopped him from lurching to his feet and finding something to break, from finding Schlatt and drowning the agony and vindictive wrath in alcohol.

Instead, he sat. He forced the anger into a low smoulder. That could wait. For now, he pulled his brother into another hug, and contemplated their situation.

Dream had the resurrection book. They both knew this was a power play, that Dream was toying with them just because he could, but for now it didn’t matter.

For now, Wilbur and Tommy were together again, and in the ruins of the nation they built, they would be okay.

_(For now.)_

_:)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not fear I am gonna write a little sequel to this.
> 
> So I decided that it'd be cool if the 'afterlife' place is L'Manburg, since it's lost it's 3 canon lives too, but like a warped glitched combination of all the eras. Also, Wilbur is in the afterlife and Ghostbur is just a part of him that remains on the SMP, but he was only able to return there after the failed resurrection. Wilbur can remember everything Ghostbur does, but Ghostbur can't (if that makes sense?)
> 
> Anyways I hope you enjoyed! :]


End file.
